Alone in the Dark
by Slipstream
Summary: *part five up* The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…
1. Part One

Title: Alone in the Dark (1/?)  
Author: Slipstream  
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)  
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)  
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…  
Notes: Great big shout out to Frodo!Healers and FBoBE, who helped me through the nutrition part of this fic. Note that the treatment listed here is the treatment Frodo would have received at the hands of a Medieval/ Victorian era healer, pre-antibiotics or full understanding of the workings of the body. Any herbs and foods listed herein would have had been discovered by trial and error, and considering the nature of Frodo's illness in this particular fic, guesswork was about as good as they could do. (Will expand more in the notes of later chapters, as I do not want to spoil the first one…) Enjoy!  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
When Frodo awoke, it was to the gentle clicking of cutlery and the soft melody of hushed voices that wafted along on the light breeze. He relaxed, knowing that, despite the darkness that surrounded him, he could not be in Mordor. Indeed, even if he had been, he felt too weak to do anything about it. He was weighted down with… something. Bedsheets? Yes, bedsheets, and bandages, from the feel of it, with a cool cloth draped over his eyes.   
  
"The fever has dropped a little, my lord."  
  
"Not enough. Have we no other herbs that would help to draw out the infection?"  
  
"Only the ones we have tried so far, and you have seen their effects. The plant we need does not grow in this region of the world, and I am afraid our meager supplies of it have been depleted by the wave of casualties just before these two arrived."  
  
The voices… It was so good to hear voices again. He could not discern their words, but their undulating rhythm created a background buzz that ebbed and flowed with the stirrings of the wind.  
  
"Damn. Perhaps an athelas flush? That has worked before with this one."  
  
"Perhaps. But we must remember that we are dealing with sensitive tissue, and no amount of bathing can travel into the depths of such a grave infection."  
  
"Still, we shall have to try. We owe the little ones that much at least." A pause, a trip in the cadence. "The swelling has not gone down any either. Continue to keep it covered with the cloth so as to keep it as dim for him as possible."  
  
"Yes, my lord."  
  
There was a slight feeling of pressure on his brow as a pair of fingers traced the curve of his forehead absently, just above his eyes. He tried to open them, but that only brought a warning twinge of pain in his head, so he drifted back into the weary sleep he had briefly awoken from.   
  
Frodo dreamed. He was being sucked into the depths of a fiery pit when, with a great jerk to his shoulders, he felt himself pulled from the smoke. The world shook to and fro, and a loud rushing noise filled his ears and blasted his face with hot air.   
  
Slowly his surroundings changed from the thick fumes of smoke to the light blue of a perfect sky. He gazed in wonder at the clouds, so white and pure, illuminated as they were by the sun barely hidden behind their serene puffs. So beautiful, everything was so beautiful… Then the sun came out from behind the cloud and he was caught in the brilliance of its burning rays. Everything grew brighter as he was lost into the glittering white-hot depths of the burning disk, brighter and brighter until the world burst into a flaring flash of white that brought pain, then faded into absolute blackness.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Stillness. Silence.   
  
The breeze was back, a real breeze, not a dream one chocked with smoke. He stirred beneath the bedclothes, wondering what feather-light substance it was that tickled his skin with its cool touch. It was so very hot, much too hot for March or even August. The heat seemed to burn and prickle from the inside out, his bones and skin felt as if they were on fire. This must be what a baking tater felt like, he mused wildly.  
  
"-id he say something?"  
  
"Sounded as such. Something like 'aters'…"  
  
Bits of the conversation were beginning to make sense through the thick cloud wrapped about his brain. His face hurt. Why did his face hurt? It also itched a little, like it was covered with something that felt very much like a very coarse burlap sack. Frodo tried to reach up and remove the cloth, but he found that his hands ached too much to move. Even better, it appeared that the itching on his face had spread to his fingers, the right ring one, specifically. Did he have a rash? He wanted to reach over and scratch it, but the left had felt icy compared the rest of his body's heat and refused to even twitch on command.  
  
"Adelian, why have you not shut the tent flap? Draughts from early morning breezes would do neither of our charges well in their illness."  
  
"My apologies, lord, I shall tend to them immediately. It *has* grown a bit chilly in here."  
  
Chilly? How could anyone deem this oppressive heat chilly? He was sure he was sweating, and where it pooled he felt sticky and dirty. Could someone not come and clean him, perhaps even remove that weighted cloth over his eyes and scratch his right third finger for good measure?  
  
"Lord Aragorn, the other halfling, Master Samwise, seems to have passed the initial fever. I deem that he is ready to be placed into the healing sleep and his body allowed to rest itself. Should we move him to another healing tent so as to decrease the chances that he might catch Master Frodo's illness?"  
  
Sam… Sam was here? He tried to turn his head towards the sound of the second voice, but that set off another twisting stab of pain into his brain. His head lolled back, reeling in surprise and confusion, but his thrashings were soon stilled by a pair of large, cool hands.   
  
"I agree that Sam has passed out of the danger area, but I am still sore to separate the pair. After what they've… what they've been through, I believe these hobbits share a bond stronger than mortal medicine. They may derive comfort from each other."  
  
There was something familiar about that voice, something that made Frodo feel safer than the host of other nameless voices he had caught snatches of as he passed into and out of consciousness. The familiar voice, deep and musical, paused before continuing, all the while massaging the scalp of the ring bearer. "He is awake, I believe, or as close to it as he is possible. We should give him the flush again now, along with some oral treacles I have brewed. Perhaps together they can battle this fever…"  
  
So he had a fever. Yes, that would explain…   
  
Frodo drifted. The darkness was swirling about him, but before he could reenter his dreams, fingers came and took away the cloth over his face. A cup was brought to his lips, and the liquid burned bitter in his mouth. He gagged, too weak to swallow, but the fingers massaged his throat and coaxed a swallowing reflex out of his still form. This was repeated several times until finally the cup was taken away, but even the little effort it took to stay conscious through the ordeal had exhausted him.   
  
The fingers were back, pulling his eyelids apart, but Frodo was so tired that even the flaring pain drew no response. The world was dim and shadowy, with bits of it clouded over and colors that faded in and out. Something was poured over his eyeballs and allowed to run off, but he was neither conscious of the accompanying sting nor of the fact that his final vision of the room had been dazzling, blinding white. Again he was soaring through a world of dreams, chased by an elusive heat and buffeted about by strong winds.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
"Lord, I fear the fever has not abated. It has grown worse, and I feel that it shall soon consume him."  
  
"Elbereth, why? As if this isn't hard enough!" The sound of wood being slammed, then a sigh. "And how fares Sam?"  
  
"He has shone no sign of waking or of evil dreams. The healing sleep is deep-set."  
  
"Thank you, Adelian. Would you see Mithrandir in?"  
  
The healer bowed then swept from the room, leaving the king to his thoughts. Aragon continued to lean heavily on the table, lost in his own mind as his eyes roved over that assortment of medicines and equipment they had used to treat the halflings. The vast amount of herbs, bandages, pots for boiling water, and stitching thread was a sickening reminder of the hard battle to keep the little ones from passing on to the lands beyond the sea. Yet even with all of their ministrations, Frodo and Sam's future was tentatively uncertain at best.  
  
The flap opened to admit Gandalf, the wizard's white-clad presence an immediate comfort in the sickroom. The grandness that bestowed the Istari was lost, however, in the sadness that set in his eyes as he gazed at the Ringbearers, a slight russet stain still adorning his sash to mark that he, too, had battled to save their lives.  
  
Aragon turned his gaze to the weave of the tent as Gandalf moved from Frodo's bedside to Sam's and back again.  
  
"Adelian is a fool," he spat to himself. "A disgrace of an assistant to the healers. He should not be allowed to practice here. He has no head for common sense, as Bilbo would say."  
  
Gandalf merely muttered a reply, replacing the compress that covered the upper half of Frodo's face, sadly noting the lack of any positive response.  
  
Aragon furrowed his brow. "He cares not for them, as if his very existence hadn't depended upon their actions."  
  
Mithrandir sighed, his voice weighed down with weariness as he caressed a heavily bandaged hand. "I would hate to remind you of a young man who once told me that in the field hospital, soldier and king were treated with the same hands."  
  
Aragon whirled. "But not these two! These who have given so much!" His flare of anger, however, was quick to disperse as he knew the truth of Gandalf's words.   
  
"He is young, Estel. All of Godor's sons are young, babes in the terms of the world, but they still fight even in the face of utter uncertainty." He moved his hands to massage gentle circles around Frodo's temples, muttering incantations in a quiet tongue in an attempt to sooth his pain.  
  
Aragon's pacings brought him to the tent-flap were he stood moodily. "I fear that we have done all that we might, Mithrandir, and still it is for naught. The sickness will not leave him, it only spreads deeper and deeper into areas we cannot touch with magic or medicine. It is too delicate."   
  
Drawing back the canvas, the King of Godor gazed out upon the open fields of wind-swept grass. "The question of what our next course of action is to be weighs heavily on my heart. Should we continue in our attempts to completely heal him? Nay, I know from times past that this is an area best kept clean and that too much interference only makes it worse. Should we abandon him to the fever that burns away at the edges of his mind? I have seen the horrors of old men whose very thoughts were robbed of them by that heat. Should we preserve him as he is now in that healing sleep, such as with Sam? True, it would halt the fever and keep his condition as it at present, but we would not know until his awakening how much of a blessing or a curse that would be." He shook his head. "Would we condemn a cripple, Mithrandir? Is that how we would repay him?"   
  
Gandalf frowned deeply into his beard, and the lines of his face attested to eons of worry and strife. "You are right. Further interference would only inflame the fever, causing more damage, and ignorance is the worst crime against those who have done so much." He bit his lip in thought, hands moving to straighten the linens. "Perhaps in eons to come man will learn to heal the eye that has seen such pain, and such a choice would not be so bitter."  
  
"Eons the hobbits do not have, and we are far from Elven-Home."  
  
"This I know." The wizard's sigh revealed his pain. "This I know." He gazed for a long time at the thin face resting fretfully, the red puffiness and swelling around the eyes barely hidden by the compress. Frodo gasped, a small, weak intake of air that sounded like the cry of a newborn babe. Gandalf touched the fevered brow and the hobbit stilled, if for only a moment, and his next words were hoarse and choked with emotion. "I am sorry, old friend."  
  
He began to chant soft words in an ancient tongue, and soon Frodo's body was as still and quiet as Samwise's, the two resting in places beyond fear or dream.   
  
"I am so very sorry."  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Fire. Fire and ash.  
  
Frodo struggled against his mind, body thrashing on the edge of the precipice in the dual pain of wounded hand and heart. The Ring was lost… lost…  
  
Gollum's scream echoed all about him. "Precioussssss……..!"  
  
Precious was lost. Lost lost lost….  
  
Two strong arms lifted him from the rocky floor and he suddenly found himself outside again. He blinked at the half-light of Mordor, still too bright for his eyes. His eyes hurt, had been hurting for several days, yet he had no tears to spare to clean them of the grit which blew constantly into them. No tears for pain, no tears for loss, not even tears enough for Sam, who supported him now in the gasping heat.   
  
"C'mon, Mr. Frodo." Through the colored fumes, Frodo could make out the dirty, sweaty face of his gardener. Sam was breathing heavily, the fires of the volcano reflecting crimson off of the thin sheen of sweat. "C'mon. We've done it. Let's leave this retched place."  
  
Frodo felt as if he would never move again, but Sam was stubborn and still possessed some of his adrenaline born strength. He was hauled down the rocky path, torn and bloodied feet dragging along the ground, as they slowly escaped from the liquid fire that boiled and spurned deep within the mountain.   
  
Tragically, they did not get far.   
  
The rest of their journey down was more of a skittering tumble than any resemblance of a walk. They fell, rolling and sliding, bringing down with them a torrent of loose rocks and ash, until they came to a stop along the top of a little mound near the foot. The mountain rumbled.  
  
Frodo lay on his back, all of his energy gone, and it seemed that there was some invisible force holding him down, pressing him into the earth. The dust burned in his eyes and throat more than ever, the heat surely cooking him alive, and then Sam was there, his face old and hovering above his own. His lips moved, but the words did not fit his mouth, they were far too deep with age and weariness to belong to his Sam.  
  
"I'm sorry, old friend," Sam's not-voice said, and his hand came forward and closed the eyes of his Master, bidding him to sleep and leave behind the pain and fear and fire. "I am so very sorry."  
  
Dimly, Frodo heard eagles, then nothing more for a very long time.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Sam lay beside his master, waiting for him to awaken. He had come out of his healing sleep two days prior and had wept of out of joy at seeing Master Merry and the young Peregrin again, of sorrow at the news that Aragorn had born of his master's fate. No change, he had said. No change. We must wait, Samwise, and see when he awakens.  
  
Sam was still too weak himself to be out walking the fields of Ithilien, but the sweet smell of the grasses and the swaying of the tree limbs overhead offered some small measure of comport. A healer, an apprentice, really, but forged into full certification by the horrors of war, had come by earlier that morning to rub a cooling ointment into the various cuts and burns of his feet. It had felt good, sinfully good, that and the water, of which there was plenty and he could never seem to get enough of. He had cried with the pain when his body had begun to move fluids again and had had to lean heavily on the now towering frame of Merry while he relieved himself. It would have been the most embarrassing moment of his life had not the dire circumstances of just a few weeks prior robbed him of his humor.   
  
But looking at Frodo drove that physical thirst away with the realization that his master had still to take any water consciously, and he burned with the shame that while he gluttoned himself on the cool, clear liquid Frodo was still trapped in the nightmare of that bone-dry ache.   
  
He slept now, head and hands and feet bound up tightly in bandages, his face occasionally twitching and his hand lifting slightly off of the coverlet in response to his dreaming. These slight movements were a good sign, according to Gandalf, and Frodo might awaken within the day. Still, when the right hand began to wander towards the open collar of his shirt, Sam gently brought it back down, mindful of the missing digit.   
  
It was late morning, and already the heat of the day made the air heavy with a heady sweetness. Sam, newly awoken and still only partially healed, found his eyelids drooping, the bed beneath him growing softer upon his cheek, and allowed himself to sleep, content in his safety and that of his master.  
  
Some hours passed and the sun moved across the sky to shine through the tent flap and directly onto the face of Samwise Garmgee, but it was not the light's radiant intensity which woke him.   
  
"s-s-am…" a voice croaked, and Sam's eyes shot open. Frodo twisted in the bed beside him, hands shaking and body quivering, but there was a new strength in his voice that identified his mutterings from those of hurried dreams. "sam… where?"  
  
Sam smiled, his eyes tearing up, and stilled his master's trembles with his gardener's hands. "I'm here, Mr. Frodo. We're safe now."  
  
"Uhhn…" Frodo groaned and turned his face towards Sam, who swallowed as the two white swatches of cloth where his eyes should be turned their unseeing gaze on him. "…safe, Sam?"  
  
Sam cleared his throat, not wanting to scare Frodo with his voice's trembling. "Aye. Safe. We're back in Ithilien now, you remember that land where we ate that bit of rabbit with Captain Faramir? We're camping with the army, and Merry and Pippin and Aragorn and Gandalf are here."  
  
"Galdalf…?" Frodo turned again, to the other side of the bed, as if he was expecting the old wizard to be there to confirm the statement. "… We… we all made it?"  
  
"All of us, Mr. Frodo. We all made it. We did it. We won."  
  
"We won…" Frodo sighed and sank back into pillows, his body collapsing from his slight efforts. "I'd very much like to see them all again, but it's so very dark, and my eyes hurt… I'm so very tired, Sam…"  
  
Sam's fingers tightened around the frail hands. "You've only just awoken from the healer's sleep. You'll feel that way for a bit more, I'm afraid. Rest a little longer, if it suits you."  
  
"Rest…" The word was a breathy whisper, more exhaled than spoken. "Rest… and then I have to see the rest of the Fellowship again, when its not so dark and my head doesn't ache so… I'll see them when its light again, won't I, Sam?"  
  
Two tears rolled down the sunken hollows of the Gamgee's face, but he had not the heart to contradict his friend and companion, and besides, Frodo had already drifted back into sleep.  
  
  
TBC... 


	2. Part Two

Title: Alone in the Dark (2/?)  
Author: Slipstream  
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)  
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)  
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…  
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, Frodo, Sam, Gandalf, and all other mentioned characters are not mine, never have been, and probably never will be. This fic is written simply as an expression of my enthusiasm for Mr. Tolkien's books, not for profit or any other reimbursement. (Other than feedback, I like that very much…) The healer Adelian is an original character created solely for the purpose of this story-arche, and will probably not play much more than a background role following part three. This chapter is his shining moment.  
Notes: Great big shout out to Frodo!Healers and FBoBE, who helped me through the nutrition part of this fic. Note that the treatment listed here is the treatment Frodo would have received at the hands of a Medieval/ Victorian era healer, pre-antibiotics or full understanding of the workings of the body. Any herbs and foods listed herein would have had been discovered by trial and error, and considering the nature of Frodo's illness in this particular fic, guesswork was about as good as they could do. All of the ocular medicine is based on primitive forms of current procedures, i.e. tracking a candle and the later use of an eye patch. Sorry this post was a bit later than I expected, this chapter got rather longish as I wished to end it at a certain point and the middle connecting my beginning and ending just kept getting longer and longer and… Well, you get the drift. Enjoy!  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Gandalf found Sam near the little creek the soldiers used to draw water, knees curled tightly to his chest as he gazed stiff-backed over the waters. One pointed hobbit ear twitched at the rustle of oncoming robes, but otherwise he gave no sign of noticing the wizard's presence. Gandalf sighed at the obstinate nature of hobbits and hitched up his robes as he attempted to coax his old joints into sitting on the bank, grunting a little as his bones settled with a loud popping.   
  
"I fear that I have grown older while my mind was distracted. How terribly unfair of age to not give me any warning."  
  
Sam made a non-committal noise. Picking up one of the smooth creek stones, he hefted its weight in his palm and hesitated, chewing his lower lip. "Frodo woke up."  
  
Gandalf nodded. "Yes, Samwise, just as he would have, despite your worries." 'And mine as well,' he added within his own thoughts.  
  
Sam sighed and tossed the little stone into the water, where it fell with a little splash. "He weren't the same, Gandalf. Right confused he was, and tired. Didn't talk no more'n a minute or two afore he fell back asleep. Weak as a kitten, he was, layin' there all helpless, like. He could barely even…" He gritted his teeth in anger, breath coming in little hisses through the gaps of his teeth, and wished he had not thrown away the stone so that he might have something hard to squeeze.   
  
A warm hand, much larger than his own, found its way to his shoulder where it soothed with gentle kneading. "He has suffered a grave illness, Sam Gamgee, and his recovery will be a slow one, as will yours. You need not tax yourself in willing the quickening of nature, as I assure you that it will not work."  
  
He shot the wizard a dark look, but his anger quickly faded, leaving behind an aching sorrow that burrowed into his every sinew. "I'm sorry, Gandalf, it's just that… We thought we were lost, lost to the ash and the rocks. All we'd counted on was the getting there, not the back again. And the further we got, well, I think Mr. Frodo said it plainest, there was no moon, no stars, no memory of good things, no memory at all. Only sharp rocks and burning flame…" His voice trailed off and he turned his face away.  
  
"If we had meant for the both of you to make your journey alone, Samwise, the council would have never assembled the nine. It is my regret that our paths took us where they did, for none should have to bear a weight so great without guidance."  
  
"I know, Gandalf," said Sam. "It is just that… I wish that I had done more, considering…"  
  
The old wizard's mouth puckered and he shook his head. "Incorrigible hobbit…" he scolded. Sam looked up in surprise. "You have already done more than even the high elves of Rivendell would attempt. You did not see how many turned away from Lord Elrond's council, wishing to remain unaware of the Ring in their foolish ignorance. You, Samwise, have faced the Ring, stood by your master and brought it to its end." He snorted. "Wished to have done more, indeed."  
  
Sam blushed and turned the matter of the conversation back to his master's health. "I have heard the healers speak, Gandalf, when they thought I was asleep or out of earshot. They say that though my master wakes, he may never see the refuge to which he's been brought." He gestured to the vast expanse of the Fields of Cormallen, which themselves were newly recovering from the reign of the Dark Lord, the tall grasses swaying in the slight breeze and the hidden parts of the creek grown thick with dark honeysuckle.   
  
Gandalf could not long withstand the gaze of eyes grown far too old for the fair face that held them. "They speak the truth, Mater Gamgee, though none knows the severity with which it will come to pass. We must wait and see when Frodo awakens fully."  
  
He growled in frustration. "But… but… why? He's suffered no head wound, not like the one that made my gaffer's cousin half-blind in the right eye." He turned, and Gandalf felt pity at the sight of unshed tears pooling across red-rimmed orbs. "What could have caused it, Gandalf? What?"  
  
"You have seen the filth that coats the land of Mordor. It is in the very air, in the ashen dust with coats the land and any who pass through it like a dead thing. You were not aware of it, but when we first attempted to bathe you, several basins of water had to be emptied before it ceased to run black and foul." He sat in thought for a moment, wishing he had a pipe to puff. "The dust settled his eyes and irritated them to the point of infection, and you yourself know what ash does to the throat. Frodo has proven strong through the trials of the quest, and though they have hardened him in some aspects, they have weakened him in others, leaving him open to sickness. Therein lay the most danger to Frodo, and blindness is an illness not even the elves have been able to eradicate."   
  
"Then there's no hope to be found then," spit Sam, his faith in elves dashed by the fact that they could no longer help his Frodo. He fisted tears away, hoping to hide them from Gandalf. "We should have died, then, for all the evil that vile thing has done him that can't be unmade."  
  
Gandalf drew him near and let the young gardener bury bitter tears in his white robes. "Oh, Sam," he said. "You must keep hope, for both your kinsman and your master who need you most. Do not despair, I feel that Frodo was destined to live with his friends by his side, and it is you who must convince him of this. His body and mind will take long in healing, and he shall need all of his strength as well as yours to return to the hobbit we know and love."  
  
Sam continued to cry softly for a bit, grateful for a chance to relieve his pent up emotions. When the last hitching sobs left him shuddering and weak, Gandalf was there to comfort him and help him stand.  
  
"T-thank you, Gandalf. I am better, now. I don't know rightly what came over me…"  
  
Gandalf smiled tenderly and guided Sam's steps back towards the camp. "Think nothing of it, Master Gamgee. Let us go and make our visit. Perhaps Frodo is again awake and, if I know that hobbit as well as I should, giving poor Adelian a very hard time of it."  
  
Sam laughed at the memory of Frodo's stubbornness and thought that he would give anything to hear his master well enough to politely refuse any medications they forced upon him.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
"Now Master Baggins, keep still, still, ahh, there's a good patient."  
  
Frodo's own voice was hoarse from lack of use and dust damaged vocal chords. He squirmed slightly but was unable to escape the confines of the blankets. "I am not a child, young man, and do not enjoy being treated as one…"  
  
Laughter rang out and the healer's smile could be heard in his mirth. "Ah yes, but then I am not child either, though you have not bothered to ask me my age, so I presume that we are even." He continued his unwrapping of the hobbit's bound feet, more careful now that he was aware of how the slightest pressure in the tender burns caused the Ringbearer to squirm.   
  
Frodo gasped as even Adelian's most gentle tuggings ripped away some of the new flesh, causing precious blood to flow. "N-not a child, yes, but still an apprentice…" He gritted his teeth at the sting of cold air on fresh wound. "And I d-doubt you are in your fifties, such as I…"  
  
Adelian patted the hobbit's knee gently as he wrapped together the soiled bandages. "You have me beat there, Master Hobbit. I had better do my best to mind you least my father scold me for cheeking my elders." His tone was light and humorous but Frodo did not smile, already too breathless for talking as he fought the bone-deep pain in his limbs.  
  
The tent-flap opened and Aragorn, King of Gondor, entered, followed closely by a hobbling Samwise supported by the firm hand of the white-clad Gandalf. Seeing the healer nearly finished in his tasks, Aragorn beckoned him over and held a hushed council in the corner while the wizard and hobbit comforted their ailing friend.  
  
"Has he been awake long?"  
  
Adelian shook his head, casting a look over his shoulder at the sick bed. "Nay. Only since a few minutes before I began to change his bandages. He has spoken a little, and regained much of his tongue, I must say."  
  
Aragorn could not help the small smile that twitched the corner of his mouth as he remembered the knack for cutting and witty retorts the young Baggins had inherited from his Uncle Bilbo. "So I heard. How are his wounds healing? Is there any sign of further illness or infection?"  
  
"For the most part they are healing as well as could be expected, if slightly more so because our patient is a hobbit. There is some lingering infection in the left foot, near the toes, but I believe with continued treatment he will not loose the digits."  
  
Aragorn nodded, curling one of his own frost-bitten toes subconsciously. "Hmm…" He flinched as Frodo suppressed a groan and was again shushed into stillness by the ever-vigilant Sam. "Can we not give him something for his pain? How full is your herb chest?"  
  
Adelian shook his head. "No. I would not give it too him just yet, as I was planning to check the full damage to his eyes. He should be clear headed for that."  
  
Aragon's hand shot out to still the words of the healer, glancing nervously at the small form on the bed. "Do not speak of it so lightly and loudly."  
  
His eyes narrowed and Adelian shrugged off the hand angrily. "Why not? You do not do him a favor by ignoring it. He is not stupid; he as already sensed that something is wrong."  
  
"Do not show your insolence. You are an apprentice yet, and I may have you replaced if your treatment does not please me."  
  
He snorted. "You would not replace me. My father grinds the looking glasses for your telescopes and sundials, and not even the oldest of your healers has gazed as long as I have into the eye, know of its diseases and treatments." His anger faded, and he remembered his post, bowing again to Aragorn. "My apologies for my temper, I only ask to see through the end with this one, whatever it might be. It would be my honor."  
  
The sounds of the old wizard humming a soft lullaby to the Ringbearer, the same tune that had brought them to ruin at the Prancing Pony what now seemed ages ago, broke the king's resolve, and he turned away. "So be it. See to your work."  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Frodo lay still, trying to stop the trembling that had originated in his chest and spread to all of his limbs. His body, however, was not immediately bent on cooperating. How very frustrating. The healer had chatted politely with him while he changed his bandages but had left the one swathed about his eyes untouched, the one he wished removed the most. It was very disorienting to be caught forever in the darkness, to have no visual clues as to whether he was waking or sleeping. Was this what death would be like, a sea of dizzying darkness within which there existed no form or substance, only heat and pain?   
  
A cool hand rested against his curls, brushing away fear and discomfort. "Come, Frodo, bring yourself away from such dark thoughts…"  
  
He stiffened at the voice and his own wavered in uncertainty. "G-gandalf?"  
  
"Yes, lad, I am here."  
  
"Gandalf!" He groped blindly for the familiar warmth of the old wizards hand and gave a small cry when fingers finally wrapped around his own. "Oh, Gandalf, I thought…" The harsh sting of tears made it impossible to continue.  
  
"Shh… shh…" he soothed, and the denting of the bed next to him and tentative touches to his right arm signaled to Frodo that Sam was also there.  
  
Though Frodo couldn't see it, Sam met the wizard's gaze and smiled. "It's all right, Mr. Frodo. See? I told you Gandalf was here."  
  
"Indeed, I would not have missed this merry meeting for all the adventures of Middle Earth." Galdalf gently squeezed the cool fingers of Frodo's left hand. "It is good to see you again at the end of your journey, my friend."  
  
"Yes, my journey is over, isn't it? Or almost, at least…" Frodo's head felt light and his stomach queasy. Had the healer given him some medicine while he slept that made him feel and think so oddly? He sighed. "Bilbo will be disappointed. I had no time to gather the songs and tales he requested…"  
  
He was glad when Gandalf's reply was neither condoning nor sarcastic. The deep rumble grumbled a while in thought, finally chuckling slightly to disguise some sorrow. "Though I could not be there when I wished to during your trial, in the matter of pleasing Bilbo I believe I can be of some help. A certain song has been repeated to me by soldiers of Rohan, to a tune you should remember very well." He paused, humming a bit to gain a pitch, and when he started the song rolled out much slower and deeper than Frodo remembered, the words changed drastically, but it was comforting and swept him away in bittersweet memories of home and times long past.  
  
"There was an inn, a merry old inn  
in a hilled country so bright,  
And there the lasses danced so fair  
That many a hobbit curly haired,  
Came down to see the sight.  
  
Full of curves the bar maids were  
The half-pints even fuller.  
Over and out the gold ale ran  
So danced the lasses, hand in hand,  
Cotton-maid, Took, and Bolger.  
  
The gammers they were all aghast  
To see skirts pulled to such hights;  
But there rose a cheer up from the lads  
Who were mighty glad to see those calves  
And toasted to the sight.  
  
In laughing fits they ended the dance  
A kiss to the cheek in payment.  
To dance away with other hobbit maids  
The louder lads stamped the faster they swayed  
In skirts of calico raiment."  
  
Gandalf smiled softly. "There was more, but I shan't repeat it all as it got rather dirty in places."  
  
Frodo laughed, a sweet, soft sound Sam had not heard since Rivendell, it seemed, and his heart swelled with joy at the clear chiming. "It was beautiful, Gandalf. Who wrote it?"  
  
"None other than your cousin, that impeccable Meriadoc Brandybuck. The Knights of Rohan have informed me that Master Brandybuck thought the women of Rohan far inferior to those of the Shire, and composed this as a lay to their… physical perfections."   
  
"How typical of Merry," Frodo mused, but he winced at little as the movement cased a slight pain in his head.  
  
Sam's voice broke into the gentle reunion as he squeezed Frodo's hand, mindful of the bandages. "He and Pippin have grown frightfully tall, though as to why or how I have yet to figure out. They keep mentioning strange ales and giant trees called Ents but refuse to tell the whole tale without you there to hear. Pippin says he doesn't want to waste his breath."  
  
"That'd be a first…" He lapsed into silence, frowning. "Gandalf, why is my head bandaged?"  
  
He and Sam exchanged a look, the wizard's good humor falling. The matter finally must be addressed. "You have been very ill, Frodo. The dust and ash of Mordor has imbedded itself into your eyes, and while you have slept the healers have been fighting off the fever it has caused."  
  
"My eyes?" Frodo whispered. He wished to touch the bandages wrapped around them, but two strong pairs of hands were holding still each of his. "Then… then I am blind?"  
  
In the resulting silence, a heavy tread made its way across the room and a new voice rang out. "That we do not know, Frodo. You may be, you may not, and even if you are we do not know how severe it may be or whether it is even permanent. This is what the healer will soon test."  
  
Frodo appeared not to have heard. He sunk further into the bed, the little color he had regained quickly draining from his cheeks. "Blind… blind… alone forever in this cursed darkness…" He twitched, and Sam squeezed his hand harder.  
  
"Calm yourself, Master Baggins, it may not be that bad." Adelian bustled about the small tent. "Lord Aragorn, could you bank the fire? Not too much, just enough to dim it, and draw a screen in front of it. Yes, like that, it must be dark in order for me to focus on his eyes."   
  
By some signal Sam and Gandalf began to prop him up on pillows, steadying him for some new medical ordeal while the healer and Aragorn made preparations. Frodo thought that he might have drifted back into dark dreams, surely this nightmare was too devastating to be real, but reality contradicted him with the light touch to his head.  
  
"Now Frodo, I'm going to test your vision by having you try to track a candle. I need you to keep your eyes shut while I remove the wrappings, then we shall look at one eye at a time."  
  
"All right," he sighed, relenting to the sure touch that began to unwind the linens from around his eyes. The cloth came away slightly sticky, as if they had been pressed against something foul. The cool air felt good against his eyelids, and someone brought a wet cloth to clean away the residue and dead skin.  
  
"We'll start with the left eye. When I say so, I want you to open it and try to focus on the light of the candle. Do not worry, it is very dark in here save for that small light, and I will cover your right eye so that you do not open it beforehand. Sam, sit him up a bit farther… Thank you. Are you ready, Frodo?"  
  
Frodo swallowed, his mouth achingly dry as a sudden fear gripped him. "Y-yes…"  
  
A cloth was pressed against his right eye and the bed shifted as the healer settled before him. "Now then, open you eye, slowly, slowly…"  
  
He stilled his shaking and willed himself to peek out at the world. For a brief instant he glimpsed the blurred image of four figures staring urgently at him, the closest middle one holding a small source of light, but the yellow flame quickly flared to a sudden brightness that dazzled him and sent him reeling in a cry of pain. All was darkness and the pounding of his blood in his ears.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
"Frodo… Frodo… calm yourself. Awake."   
  
Sam sat nervously fiddling with his friend's damp curls, glaring at Adelian occasionally, the one who had caused Frodo such pain. The three taller figures were pressed close with worry. Adelian had laid aside the candle briefly while he fought to bring Frodo back to the world of the living.  
  
Frodo moaned and shifted, rolling his head from side to side and pressing into the pillow. Aragorn frowned. It was not a good sign. He had seen many animals in the wild blinded by disease who shook their head in such a fashion, rubbing against anything they could find as if to rid themselves of the ache behind their eyes.   
  
Sam murmured unintelligible words of comfort and before long, Frodo's eyes fluttered open briefly before shutting again quickly.  
  
"Ow."  
  
Adelian's features were grim. "Tell me, little one, what did you see?"  
  
The worry lines on Frodo's brow increased and Sam wiped away some of the sweat that was forming there. "I… I… At first there were dim shadows and forms, but the light burned too quickly to tell what…" He dared to open the eye again, and Adelian felt his hopes drop as the blue iris, the pupil alarmingly diminished, settled on him briefly before rolling back upwards and to the right, where it remained. "Now all is gray and blackness, as if a mist has descended on the world… but… but it seems that there should be a picture, glimpses of which I can see… but they do not make sense…" His voice trailed off, and the lid fluttered in weakness, surreally exposing only the white of the eye.  
  
Gandalf saw that Sam was about to descend to hysterics, and he quickly devised an errand for him so that he would not panic Frodo further. "Samwise, I prepared a small meal for Frodo and left it warming beside the fire in my quarters down the way. Could you fetch it?"  
  
Sam balked. "But Gandalf…"  
  
"Fetch it, Sam." His voice was stern, but then it softened. "Please, Frodo will need nourishment after his long fast.  
  
The hobbit hesitated, but he finally left, giving his master a final sorrowful glance before he slipped out. Frodo whimpered at his absence.   
  
Aragorn shifted nervously, his mood not improved by the state of the Ringbearer's weakly roving eye. He exchanged glances with the healer, who nodded mutely as if to say 'And now for the other eye.'  
  
Frodo was not so willing to face for a second time the sharp pain that sight brought, so Adelian was forced to pull back the right lids with gentle fingers. Gandalf was dismayed at what he saw in the place of a once brilliantly sky blue eye. What once twinkled in laughter and mirth was flat and dull, the color of the iris almost completely obscured by cloudy white cataracts. The pupil was completely covered, and only the barest of twitchings showed any response as Adelian moved the candle from side to side.  
  
"What do you see now?"  
  
Frodo squinted. "There is a dark red patch in a sea of blackness, but looking at it makes my head hurt."  
  
Adelian nodded and placed the candle back on the table. "Thank you, Frodo. I am done now." He reapplied the compress over his eyes before moving to tend to the fire.   
  
"Well, what do you think?" inquired Aragorn, part-way out of the halfling's earshot.  
  
Frowning, he poked at the glowing embers. "Mind that I cannot be certain until I consult my books. You have seen the condition of his right eye, it is beyond repair, but perhaps some function can be salvaged from the other. But do not trouble him with this now. Presently rest and nourishment are the most important issues to be addressed. We will have to work hard to reverse the physical tolls of his journey, and he will need all of his health."  
  
As if on cue, Sam returned, carrying a small tray with a steaming bowl of enriched broth and a small pitcher of water. Leaving the king and healer to their talk of herbs and methods for improving vision, the wizard motioned him over. Frodo had drifted back into a light doze, but the sound of soft feet and the clink of Sam settling the tray on the table woke him.  
  
"Your Sam is back, Mr. Frodo, with food, to boot."  
  
He blearily rubbed at his nose while Gandalf helped him into a semi-reclining position. "Ugh… I do not know if I can keep it down, as much as I'd like to…"  
  
Gandalf rearranged the bedclothes around the too-thin hobbit. "Do not worry, Frodo. You shall start small, light broths and soft foods along with plenty of liquids, and only when you become accustomed to these shall we press you with more complicated dishes."  
  
Sam settled next to Frodo on the bed, cradling the warm bowl. He spooned a small amount of the broth into Frodo's mouth and waited as his master swallowed slowly, testing his stomach's response. When, after a few moments, all was still well, Sam smiled and gave him another. Several minutes passed this way, Frodo slowly consuming the contents of the bowl while Gandalf observed with quiet contentment.   
  
Sam reached back to the tray and produced a thin wafer from a leaf wrapping. It was a little dry and stiff, but it still released a faint scent of woods and springtime. The last of the lembas, fished from Legolas's pack and saved specifically for this purpose. He crumbled it into the broth, swirling it with the spoon and turning it into a white mush. Softened and flavored, he pressed it to Frodo's lips.  
  
Initially Frodo looked as if he would take it, but the moment the taste hit his tongue he began to retch and choke. Adelian and Aragorn looked up in alarm but Gandalf was closer, and he quickly leaned the Ringbearer forward in time for him to vomit into a waiting basin.   
  
Sam looked on, frightened, as Frodo heaved and coughed until nothing but bile remained. Gandalf put the bowl away and settled him back amidst the bedclothes.  
  
"…no, sam…" Frodo gasped weakly. "…we can't eat it… not yet, not yet… have to save… still so far to go…"  
  
The distressed look on Frodo's face was mirrored in Sam's eyes as he sought to comfort him. "Hush, Master. Don't fret. We've left that cursed land. We're safe now, and you'll never have to worry 'bout food or drink again, not while Sam's here."  
  
Frodo continued to shiver and mumble incoherently while Sam and Gandalf soothed and it was some minutes before he was himself once more. When he at last caught enough breath for speaking, he shuddered and muttered, "I never want to taste the elven waybread ever again. I wish I had never grown to know its hollow taste that wills a body to live even when the mind wishes to die…"  
  
"Oh, Frodo," Sam sobbed, clutching him harder. Frodo would have cried, too, but the salt tears made his eyes ache and burn, so he just clenched heated fists in frustration and pressed his face into the contrasting coolness of the pillow.  
  
  
  
TBC…. 


	3. Part Three

Title: Alone in the Dark (3/?)  
Author: Slipstream  
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)  
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)  
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…  
Notes: Sorry this one is so much later than originally intended. Studying for semester finals gets in the way a good deal. The lice idea stemmed from a conversation with Singe. The method used to describe the location of food on a plate using the cardinal directions is based on the clock system used for this same purpose. While I do think that Tolkien mentioned somewhere the use of pocket-watches and suchforth, it seems more likely that the common people, especially military men, would understand directions (North, South, East, West) more so than telling time. I do not know whether or not oranges are said to grow in Middle Earth, but for the purpose of this fic I am placing them amongst the groves of Gondor, reasoning that during the summer, being further south, they may have a climate similar to that of northern California, where oranges are known to grow.  
Disclaimer: Do not own do not own do not own. How many times must I assert this? Plot mine, characters not.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Frodo spent the next week confined to the dimness of the healing tent. Adelian had fashioned a small leather eye-patch to cover his right eye, insisting that continued wear and forcing of the left eye to function would return much of his lost vision. However, the one-eyed view of the world which flickered and spun constantly, more times than not trapped in swirling darkness, never staying still or in focus long enough to make sense, only gave Frodo a splitting headache. While Adelian and Sam were away, he often took one of the cleansing towels and tied it about his head as a blind-fold, relishing in the at least semi-pain free darkness.  
  
Pippin and Merry were not to be withheld from their long-lost cousin for long, despite his quarantine. They had been sneaking visits to him while he dozed on and off, and mid-week, once he had begun to keep down solid foods and show some interest in leaving his bed to move around, they arrived with an enormous breakfast for the four of them.   
  
Sam looked up in alarm when Merry and Pippin burst through the tent-flap, Pippin laughing at the tail-end of some joke while Merry carried a large tray and a knapsack slung over one shoulder. They, too, were still healing, so their movements were jerky and halted in places, slowing them down, but they still carried with them enough charismatic energy to fill the little tent with life and happiness.  
  
"Morning, Frodo, Sam," Pippin greeted, taking advantage of Merry's hesitation as to where to put the food to swipe a piece of toast.   
  
Frodo pushed himself up on trembling arms, one eye squinting as if to glimpse some light in a great darkness. Pippin suppressed a shiver at the sight as the pupil revolted against its master, coming to rest gazing inward.   
  
"Good morning, Pippin, and… Merry…?" Frodo's voice was still a little gruff and raspy from the dusts of Mordor, and Adelian had whispered that it may always be so. Merry answered his cousin's inquest with a grunt, affirming his presence. Frodo sniffed and tilted his head. "You've brought something. I can tell by the smell…"  
  
"Just a bit of breakfast, cousin," said Merry, and Sam rolled his eyes. From the looks of the vast amounts of food Merry had managed to fit into his pack as well as pile on the tray, several members of the kitchen staff were at that moment scratching their heads and wondering where their dishes had gone.  
  
Frodo shifted a little on the bed and Sam was quick to stick several pillows behind his back, allowing him to sit up fully. Pippin clambered up onto the man-sized cot and sat there cross legged, lightly gripping Frodo's left hand. He broke off a piece of his toast and waved it in front of his cousin's nose. "There's toast, Frodo, and eggs and bacon and hash browns and bit of sausage, if you feel up to it. We even managed to find a stash of some Gondorian fruits, strange as they are, and sneak a bit here."  
  
Frodo caught the Took's wrist, a little clumsily, with his wounded hand. His left eye squinted in concentration, and Pippin waited patiently. His fingers groped until he found the bit of bread, bringing it to his mouth to taste. He nibbled at it, licking at the sweet jam and taking small, careful bites. When he managed to swallow it without his stomach making immediate protests, Sam released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.  
  
Merry was dragging the small table and benches to the side of the sickbed so Sam moved to help him. Together they arranged it so that they could all sit on the bed and still have a flat place to set their food. While Merry arranged Frodo's carefully prepared meal on the tray, Sam pulled the little side table close to the other side of the bed for Pippin's use.   
  
Once they were all settled, they sat around Frodo in a little ring, Pippin on the left, Sam on the right, Merry near the feet. Sam eyed the contents of Frodo's tray with approval, and a conspirital wink from Merry proved that the Brandybuck had chosen the wares based upon the healer's orders.  
  
"What is it, Sam?" asked Frodo, cautiously seeking out the dishes by touch. "It smells wonderful."  
  
Sam took his master's hand in his own and led it across the tray, describing the layout of his breakfast in the strange terminology Adelian had instructed him in. "Well, sir, north on the main plate there's toast, eggs to the east, scrambled, potatoes to the south, and a bit of sausage at the west, all lightly seasoned. The left-flank plate has some fruit, apples and such like, and cream if you want it."   
  
"Aye," Merry laughed, spearing a large chunk of his own sausage. "You can tell the healer is a military man. Describing dinner in terms of troop movements, indeed."  
  
Frodo shrugged. "It works. Mostly."  
  
Sam smiled and brought Frodo's hand to touch the assortment of cups and glasses to the upper right of the main dishes. "Right flank has tea and water and…"  
  
"A surprise!" interrupted Pippin as his cousin touched the glass in question.  
  
Frodo's brow wrinkled a moment in question, then in suspicion. "Not another of Adelian's tonics, I pray…"  
  
"Worse," intoned Pippin gravely. "One of Gandalf's."  
  
Frodo blanched and went as white as his sheets. Sam alternated between scolding the young Took for frightening his master so and reassuring Frodo that it was not some vile medicine snuck in amongst his breakfast.   
  
"Really, Frodo, it's quite good. I bet you'll like it a lot, and if you don't, well, the more for me. Here, try some…" Pippin picked up the glass and placed it against his cousin's lips. Frodo kept his mouth tightly shut for a moment, but when his nose assured him that whatever this was, it did not smell as vile as his daily tonics, he parted his lips slightly and admitted the cool liquid. At the little noise of surprise Frodo made, Pippin smiled and allowed him to drink more.  
  
Finally Frodo drew back, licking at the remainder of the juice. "That *was* good. Sweet. What is it?"  
  
"A juice made from one of the citrus fruits that grows this far south," answered Merry. "Oranges, they call them, and for a good reason. They're the same color as a carrot, but sweeter and grow in trees. The men of Gondor drink the juice when they break fast."  
  
"Good for colds and such like, as well," said Sam, adding butter and marmalade to his master's toast. "Adelian thought you might like it."  
  
Frodo nodded again and took the glass from Pippin, sipping at the cool sweetness.   
  
The soft sounds of clinking cutlery soon filled the little tent, gentle laughter and conversation flowing easily as the four wounded hobbits reached out tentatively to reaffirm that they had all made it out alive. Merry watched earnestly as Frodo insisted on feeding himself, fumbling about on his tray and occasionally missing the plate with his fork (he had no knife, Sam, not quite trusting him with the sharp edge, had already cut up his hash browns and sausage into manageable pieces), but doing fairly well, considering. Blushing, he occasionally asked Sam for reminders as to where everything was placed, and the gardener was patient in his directions. After the first nibbles of sausage, Frodo shied away from his meat and the heavy sitting potatoes, picking a good bit at his eggs but primarily interested in his breads and fruits. When a bandaged hand cautiously groped at the place where his toast had been, now reduced to crumbs and a few smears of jam, Pippin wordlessly slipped two of his own slices onto Frodo's plate. Merry smiled at the content look on his cousin's face as he bit into the bread. Frodo needed the nourishment.  
  
"It's very good," said Frodo, smiling in the general direction of Pippin. The Took smiled but, remembering that Frodo wasn't likely to see such a subtle gesture, quickly mumbled his thanks.  
  
"He didn't cook it, the rascal, so don't be too hasty to heap compliments upon him." Merry licked his fingers clean of the last of the meat juice. "Of the many points in his character which improved over our quest, Master Peregrine's culinary skills were not one of them."  
  
A small smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back into the pillows. "Sam has been teasing me with bits of the tale of your journey. Something about great trees and a flood."  
  
Merry nodded, exchanging glances with Pippin. "Well, I guess that now is a good a time as any to tell that tale, now that we have you captive here in your bed." He settled himself into a more comfortable position and chewed at a crust of toast. "Now, where to begin…"  
  
He told of their capture by the orcs and escape into Fangorn Forest, their wanderings which caused them to quiet literally bump into Treebeard. Pippin interjected and described Quickbeam and the Entmoot, finally the march to Isengard and the fall of the dark tower. They argued a bit over which of the storeroom's contents was most welcome, the pipeweed or the vittles, and then had a great deal of fun describing with exaggerated adjectives the looks on the three hunter's faces upon finding the two hobbits dozing in the sun. They related of riding with Gandalf, Pippin shame-facedly admitting looking into the Palantir and being whisked off on horseback to Minas Tirith. While Merry became a soldier of Rohan, Pippin became a member of the Gondorian guard, and here they paused to let Frodo run his hands along the embroidery of their finery and finger the fine links of their chain mail. They were careful to edit much of the horrors out of their tale of the final battle, but Merry could tell by the look on Frodo's face that he guessed at what was left unsaid. Throughout all they described everything in as rich a detail as they could, trying to make their cousin see the colors and textures of their adventure, to witness through their eyes the lands of Middle Earth that he had not seen.  
  
Afterwards Frodo stretched and absently reached up to itch at his eye underneath the patch. "You are growing quite good at spinning yarns, cousins, but I fear you have left something out. Sam has been telling me how awfully tall you've grown, and I must say I can hardly believe it without seeing it for myself. I wish…" He sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind. If wishes were fishes and all that botheration."  
  
"Come now, cousin," said Merry, placing a solid arm across his shoulders. "Things can only get better. With the war over you can rest easy and not worry about anything but getting better."  
  
"The healer said that time could probably heal a good bit of it, didn't he Sam?" Sam nodded and Pippin continued. "You should be getting better every day. Why, I bet if you tried now you would already notice a change."   
  
Frodo mused over this for a bit, twisting the sheets with his long fingers. Slowly, he reached upwards to remove the leather eye-patch and covered his eyes with both hands, squeezing them shut. He sat like this for several minutes, breathing slowly, only speaking to reassure Merry and Pippin that he was all right. Sam, who had seen this before, waited in silence. Rubbing at his eyes a final time, he opened them to stare at Merry and Pippin. The blue pupils wavered for a second and then unfocused completely, the left eye drifting upward while the right remained clouded and vacant.  
  
"Curses," he mumbled, wincing as he replaced the atch. "I can't even tell you have faces…"  
  
Merry frowned. Suddenly he sprang from the bed, grasping his cousin firmly by the shoulders. "Come, Master Baggins, up you go."  
  
"W-w-what?" Frodo stammered, gripping Merry's arms equally as tight in surprise as he was lifted from the confines of the sheets to stand shakily on the floor. "What are you…?"  
  
"Showing you how tall we are, isn't that what you wanted? Pip, come over here…"  
  
Worried, Sam moved over to provide extra support to the trembling frame of his master, on his feet for the first time since their awakening in Ithilien. Frodo quavered slightly and was a shade paler than normal, but he remained upright, slowly adjusting his weight to standing.  
  
"Mr. Merry…" muttered Sam, unable to keep silent any longer.  
  
"Hush up, Sam, and help you master stand."  
  
Sam bit his lip but complied, stooping briefly to clear the floor of any obstacles.  
  
"How are you faring, cousin?" asked Merry.  
  
Frodo's face was pale and sweating, but he swallowed heavily and kept his features plain. "All right, I think. A little cold, maybe…"  
  
"Here then, come forward a little, closer to the fire. It's only a few steps." Like old men they shuffled forward, Frodo wincing occasionally as a wrong step pulled at his bandages. Pippin and Sam hovered at a careful distance, offering support and encouragements. "Pippin, come stand right there…good. Now, Frodo," Merry began, turning the Ringbearer to face the Took. "… you said you wished to see our new found height. All right, then. Look."  
  
He took a bandaged hand and lifted it upwards, touching first Frodo's head and then stretching the extra inches to place it on Pippin's brow.   
  
Frodo froze. "Oh…" He remeasured the change in height difference himself, hand patting over Pippin's face to assure himself that this was indeed the Took lad he had toted across half of Middle Earth. "You *have* grown..."  
  
Sam felt that he would cry as Frodo gingerly explored the Took's sharp features, his master's mouth softening in contentment as he rediscovered the Pippin he had left behind in the Tookish point of his nose, the soft flush of cheeks, the dimple of a chin. He frowned, however, when his hand reached his scalp-line, the quirk of his eyebrows questioning. "You're hair's much shorter…"  
  
Pippin blushed a furious scarlet, and it was Merry who answered with a bit of a laugh. "He caught lice while we were en route from Isengaurd, and the men cut it short and dunked his head into several foul smelling liquids to rid him of it. It was a bit of a blessing, really, as it was the only way they could impose upon him the necessity to bathe properly."  
  
Smiling, Frodo reached out towards Merry. "And how tall did you end up, Master Brandybuck?" Frodo's fingers found themselves in Merry's hair and he laughed. "You managed to keep lice-free, I see." Pippin pulled a face which made Sam snort. Frodo smiled as well, but the grin soon dropped into a puzzled frown as he pulled his hand lower, over his cousin's face. Merry kept utterly still as he slowly traced one finger over the great upraised scar across his forehead. "Though there are some parts to your tale that you have not spoken of."  
  
Merry's face was grim as he urged the cool hands away from the old hurt. "As have you, cousin."  
  
Frodo bared his teeth in the slightest grimace, turning partially away. Merry steadied him as his balance shifted and the world within his head dipped and spun.   
  
"Are you all right?" came Pippin's soft voice, to his left. "This is your first time up and about, after all. I recall being a good deal tipsy myself when I snuck out of bed before the healer approved of it."  
  
"I… I'm alright," Frodo insisted, but was immediately contradicted as his left leg gave out, jerking him in surprise. Pippin caught him, and then Sam was there, six pairs of hobbit hands, whole and strong, there to keep him standing. He swallowed, suddenly feeling very thirsty. "Though I am a bit tired. And dizzy. Perhaps I should get back into bed, now…"  
  
The three exchanged a nod and Sam felt a small knot of worry loosen as they guided him back across the dirt floor. Merry, not hollowed by a long journey in fasting or crushed beneath towering troll-flesh silently insisted to be the one to lift him onto the bed. He winced guiltily when something in the movement twisted Frodo so that he inhaled sharply, freezing in Merry's grip.   
  
"Easy now, I'm sorry…" he soothed, lowering him onto the soft cot. Frodo curled onto his side, shivering, while Pippin added more blankets and rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Are you thirsty?" The dark curls nodded briefly and Merry busied himself with pouring fresh orange juice into a cup.  
  
"Sam…" Pippin's voice quavered, and Merry looked up from preparing Frodo's drink to see his younger cousin staring horrified at a blood covered hand. Merry quickly turned Frodo over, and his hands came away bloody from where they had touched his back.  
  
Sam signaled for the two of them to keep quiet. He fetched a fresh night-shirt from the trunk in the corner of the tent, also palming an unlabeled bottle filled with a thick amber liquid. "Here, Mr. Frodo, let's get you in a clean night-shirt."  
  
Frodo groaned but did not protest when Sam sat him briefly up to remove the bloodied garment. From where Merry stood he could now clearly see the whip-marks crisscrossing his cousin's back, scars he had heard tale of but never actually seen. The long angry marks, gut-wrenching in their frequency, slashed the pale skin into a thousand pieces. The red welts had begun to scar over with new skin, pink and puffy, but in some places it was still long scabs, crusted with old dark blood. The movement involved in getting in and out of bed had torn open several of these, leaking red accusation and dripping in long crimson rivulets down the prominent spine and ribs. Merry shoved a fist into his mouth and bit in order to stifle the small cry of alarm rising in his throat.  
  
Sam took the glass from Merry's hand and tipped a generous amount of the amber contents of the phial into it. He indicated to Pippin and Merry to hold Frodo's ever weakening form upright while he mixed the solution well. "Here, Mr. Frodo, drink this."  
  
Frodo complied with minimal protests, letting the cool liquid coat his throat, tasting the lingering after-taste of something slightly bitter too late. He was about to voice that he did not need any more medication, thank you very much, but he'd already lost much of the control of his mouth and jaw. The last few drops of the spiked juice dribbled heedlessly down his chin when Sam finally took the cup away.  
  
"Fee'ah s'range…" he mumbled as he felt deft hands cleaning his back. The world buzzed in his ears and he thought he heard someone reply, but their words were lost in the sinking lethargicness settling into his limbs. By the time Sam, Pippin, and Merry had laid him back down, face to the mattress, in order to apply fresh gauze, he had already fallen into a drugged, dreamless slumber.   
  
  
TBC… 


	4. Part Four

Title: Alone in the Dark (4/?)  
Author: Slipstream  
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)  
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)  
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…  
Notes: I had long planned the ride from the Fields of Cormallen to Minas Tirith, but I must say that I was greatly affected and influenced by the riding imagery in Elwen's "Journey to the Last Homely House," which I highly recommend. So the original concept of an ill Frodo riding a horse flanked by two 'catchers' came from that wonderful piece of work. On a medical note, the way that Frodo walks, with an abnormally high step, is common amongst blind animals, most notably horses and dogs, and seemed appropriate as, with his hobbit stature, he would have had to walk this way to avoid tripping over the foliage.  
Disclaimer: Do not own do not own do not own. How many times must I assert this? Plot mine, characters not.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
"But Mr. Frodo…!"  
  
"No! I won't put it on!"  
  
"But the healer…"  
  
"Curse the healer, I'm sick of it. Now put it away and let me be!"  
  
Pippin paused at the entrance flap, glancing over his shoulder at Gandalf. Merry was sleeping late, bad dreams having kept him awake most of the night, and had insisted that Pippin go with the wizard to visit Frodo anyway. But from the sounds of the argument coming from within, Pippin wasn't so sure they would be welcome.  
  
He paused, licking his lips. "Maybe we should come back later, Gandalf…"  
  
The wizard raised his eyebrows momentarily before pushing ahead of the young Took. "Nonsense, my lad. Now more than ever I believe that we should intrude. It sounds as if Master Gamgee is in need of assistance dealing with your cousin's stubborn temper." He entered the tent, and Pippin had no choice but to hurry after him lest he be hit by the heavy fabric.  
  
Inside was dim, as usual. Sam stood at the edge of the bed, nervously fingering some bit of cloth, while Frodo sat stiffly propped against his pillows, his arms crossed resolutely in front of him and what appeared to be a hand-towel tied around his head.  
  
"Good morning, my dear Frodo," Gandalf greeted, assessing the situation in a glance. "What seems to be the trouble?"  
  
Frodo scowled. "I won't wear it. You can't make me."  
  
Sam looked at Gandalf imploringly, still holding onto the leather eye-patch. 'Help,' he mouthed, eyes tired and shoulders slumped.  
  
Gandalf nodded in understanding and moved to sit next to Frodo on the bed. The Ringbearer's face was pulled in a writhing grimace of emotion and he winced as the occasional tear trickled painfully down his cheek.   
  
"Now my dear Frodo Baggins," the wizard pulled the thin hobbit close, providing support and understanding. "Perhaps you can tell me why you are giving Master Gamgee such a hard time concerning that little scrap of cloth. I will listen."  
  
Frodo squirmed and fretted, his skin flushed with the final passings of a light fever. "I'm sorry Gandalf, but I can't… I'm tired of the pain and confusion and thinking it might get better. I know that it won't, it only grows darker every passing day, and where I might once have seen light and shape there is now only a whisper of shadow. I would be a fool to try to ignore this, more foolish still to think that it would ever change, so it is best that I…" Here he paused and swallowed heavily. "It is best that I acknowledge that I am blind and always will be and live my life accordingly. Please… I…" He turned his thin face away, twining long fingers in frustration through dark locks.  
  
Gandalf pulled him close, feeling his age as none of the ageless Istari had ever felt before. It pressed upon him with a quickening darkness and weariness much like that autumn day far away in Elrond's council, the day Frodo had taken up the mantel of the Ring. The stars had sung of Frodo's fate since long ago, had been weeping tears of sorrow for all the coming plights of the world since it had first been sung into being, but had they foreseen this irony, that the one who had saved the world from darkness should be trapped in it forever? The small form shivering against his robes was hot and weary, how should he now confront this macabre wisdom?  
  
He pulled back from Frodo briefly, tipping the hobbit's face toward the light. With tender hands he pulled away the towel. Frodo did not resist, merely slumped into the wizard's hands in resignation. Gandalf studied the wane face for a minute, wishing to read the answers in the deep pools of starlight reflected in his irises much as he had once read the skies and constellations, but the blue orbs were cloudy and dark, much like the future. He sighed, finally coming to a decision.  
  
Frodo sagged in despair, ready to receive a good scolding and be forced into wearing that vain hope again, but he was surprised to find gentle fingers wrapping a soft cloth back around his eyes. He inhaled the familiar scent of pipe weed and reached up to touch the new blindfold. It was finer than the tea towel, fitting his face better, not nearly so coarse against his sensitive skin, and tied easier in the back. He groped along the hem until he found a jagged edge where a knife had cut it and the fine fringe of adornment. The feeling of the minute embroidery against his fingertips told him that this new scrap of cloth was from the very sash Gandalf used as a belt.  
  
He gaped. "G-gandalf, I cannot wear this! Why, what will you…"  
  
Gandalf touched him on the shoulder, silencing him, and in the dim gloom of the tent his eyes sparkled like the old wise face of the moon.   
  
"Speak no more of it. Rest now, we have long days and much traveling ahead of us."  
  
Frodo chewed his lip, still fingering the torn hem. "Actually, I was hoping to maybe take a walk today…"  
  
"Mr. Frodo," Sam warned. "The healer didn't say no such thing about you walkin' yet…"  
  
Frodo waved him down and turned back to Gandalf. He misjudged the wizard's position so his stare was directed rather surreally towards a distant corner of the tent.  
  
"Please Gandalf… We leave in a few days for the white city and I haven't even taken a circuit around this tent. I've been closed up in here with hot steam and foul smelling medicines… let me feel the grasses of Ithilian if only once between my toes. Pippin could help me. He knows that I a merely blind, not a cripple, and Sam's wanting a nap, if his mood this morning is any indication."   
  
"W-w-what?" the young Took jerked to attention, suddenly wary of being drawn into the argument.   
  
"I'm not the only one needing a nap," Sam grumbled. Frodo smiled and patted his hand but continued his attack.   
  
"I am sick of naps. Napping is all I do. Fresh air is what I want, and to stretch my legs. Friend that you are, Sam, you'd press me to stay in this bed even if all of Lord Elrond's court showed up spectacularly drunk today for an early wedding."  
  
Pippin fidgeted with the hem of his mail-coat, occasionally sending nervous glances in the wizard's direction. Much to his chagrin, Gandalf did not immediately protest to the idea of Frodo out of bed, indeed he seemed to be mulling over the idea with great thought and interest. He grumbled low in his throat for a few moments, and then a twitch of a smile touched the corner of his lips as he nodded to himself. "A walk. Yes, that may be what our Baggins needs, if only to convince him to stay off his legs a while longer. Only a short one , mind you. Master Peregrin will accompany you."  
  
Frodo smiled in genuine pleasure and as happy as Pippin was for his cousin, he could not help but feel the knot in his stomach tighten at the thought of the stern glare and angry tongue wagging he would receive from Sam if so much as a mosquito bit his master. Peregrin Took, having been in the business of making trouble for all of his twenty-eight years, knew it when he smelled it.  
  
"Thank you, Gandalf," he enthused, then bent double as a bout of coughing drove a dust darkened wad of phlegm from his throat. Gandalf rubbed soothing circles until the fit passed.  
  
"A *short* walk, Master Baggins," he chided softly.  
  
Frodo hacked a final time, his voice still raspy. "Yes, of course."  
  
There was a bit of a fuss getting him out of bed and dressed to Sam's satisfaction, wrapped in many layers and extra cloaks to warm his thin frame. Pippin hooked a guiding arm around his cousin, dismayed to feel the bony ridge of his spine even through thick layers of wool and cotton. For a moment of horror he imagined the feel of warm blood soaking through cloth, could almost feel scabs opening beneath his hands, but he shook his head and brought his thoughts away from the past and back to the Frodo in his arms.  
  
"Ready to go, cousin?"  
  
Frodo itched at his nose, readjusting the blindfold. "As I'll ever be." He stumbled a little on his first step but, biting his lip in determination, he and Pippin managed to stagger out of the tent without further incident. Sam made a move as if to follow them, but he found his way blocked by Gandalf's staff.  
  
"Oh no, Master Gamgee. I believe *you* have had enough exercise for a good bit. Rest is what you need, and despite your master's protests, a good nap never hurt anyone."  
  
~~~***~~~   
  
They stepped out into the early morning sunlight, their toes crinkling on the still-frosted grass. The sun was rising steadily and soon its warmth would melt away the little slivers of ice, but the air still held the crisp chill of early spring. The camp rattled and thrummed with the noise of life: the cadence made by marching feet, the call of the guard, horn-blasts marking the hour, the crackle of the cooking fires as they worked to produce food for an army. For a moment Frodo froze, his head twisting this way and that in confusion.  
  
"Here, Frodo, just hold tight and follow my voice," Pippin tightened his hold on his cousin, wrapping an arm around his back for support and guidance.   
  
"The moment of truth," he muttered and licked at dry lips. He cautiously took a few steps forward, staring at the ground as if he could see what dangers lay before his feet, waiting to trip him and bring him down. Pippin encouraged him quietly, wishing it were Merry, who always knew what to say and when to say it, easing Frodo into the world.  
  
Frodo's gait was slow and a little awkward, testing various styles to see which worked best. He drug his feet a bit, afraid to lift them from the ground, and when that left him only tangled and wet from the long grass he lifted his feet high and planted them slowly, looking for all the world like a child climbing an overly large staircase in the dark. "I feel like a horse being put through his paces," he confided, and Pippin laughed.  
  
They soon had it figured out, however, Frodo lifting his feet only a little higher than the average person and then dragging the toes in search of hidden obstacles. Pippin was very careful to keep to smooth ground, ever watchful for stray arrowheads or fire flints that could hurt his cousin's still tender feet. Soldiers stared at them, some hailing them and bowing respectfully before turning to whisper to their comrades tales and exaggerations of the Ringbearer's quest. Frodo, not knowing to whom he was speaking or where they were, muttered a few greetings but mostly clung tightly to Pippin.  
  
The silence of the early morning fell between them and Frodo was content to be just up and walking for a while until he felt some purposeful turn in their stride. "Where are we going?"   
  
"A surprise."  
  
Frodo grunted. "You like surprises."  
  
For some reason the smile didn't come this time. "You'll like this one, too. Promise."  
  
They hobbled forward, Pippin slouched almost double to make up for his height and Frodo's slumped figure. The sounds of camp fell away behind them to a sort of quiet bubble of spring promises circling the two of them. Frodo was trying to guess where they could be walking, but, having never seen the camp or ventured beyond his own tent, he was completely lost until a gentle gurgling noise made itself known.  
  
"Pip," he gasped, grip death white. "You don't mean to say that there's a…" His cousin was silent but the crunch of smooth bank stones beneath his feet and the feel of something wet lapping against his ankles gave him his answer.  
  
"… a river."  
  
He swayed, and it seemed that he was back in Mordor again, back pressed against the ash and sharp rock. Sam was panting above him, urgently calling his name while pressing the mouth of their leather water canteen to his cracked lips.   
  
~Frodo… Frodo… come back to me master… Here, here… have a bit of water… no, you drink. Your Sam's already had some. Drink… Drink…~  
  
But he hadn't, clever foolish Sam, giving Master all the water and taking none for himself. They were miles from water, miles from even a trickling of spilt spit, and surely that wet cold against his toes and in his mouth was just some cruel illusion.  
  
A buzzing filled his ears and then everything was fuzzy and hot again and Pippin's voice broke through the fog. "A creek, really, but bless me if it isn't a wonder to be able to take a good dunk and get all clean again. Remember that stretch of road right out of Rivendell where Aragorn was doing his paranoid ranger thing? I don't believe he bathed for a month."  
  
"I-I remember… I think…" Pippin had hoped that the anecdote would cheer his cousin up, but Frodo's knuckles were white were they grasped his cloak, breaths coming fast and shallow. Frodo swallowed, fighting his rising nausea, and bent to grope before him. "How close is the edge?"  
  
"We're almost in it, here, up a few steps." Cool rocks beneath their feet, squishing with mud and shallow water. Frodo wiggled his toes experimentally and then extended a hand as if to touch the surface. "Mind your bandage," intoned Pippin and was startled at how very grown up he sounded.  
  
Frodo reached out a tentative hand to skirt along the top of the water, laughing as the cool water splashed and trickled across his fingertips. He spread both hands wide and pressed them into the stream, emerging himself up to his elbows.   
  
"Oh!" he gasped. "It's cold!" But he did not move his hands, only wiggled them deeper into the mud. Little tadpoles squirmed around his thin wrists in the water, tickling him with their long tails.   
  
Pippin settled onto the bank. He dug around for a bit in his tunic and produced his pipe and tragically empty tobacco pouch. He shrugged, used to short rations by now, and contented to chew on the stem while he watched his cousin slowly explore the complexities of the streambed.   
  
Frodo's voice was a little breathless when he spoke next. "It has been long since I have seen a river I trusted, Pippin. Since Lothlorien or Rivendell, I think."  
  
Pippin nodded, remembering the tale of a long waterless march. "Aye. Still, I'd much rather see our own Brandywine again. It seems so long ago since we were but lads wiggling like fish through the river-weeds."  
  
"I'm not even sure that I've ever fully trusted the Brandywine," he said quietly, still wiggling his fingers absently in the current.   
  
"Nor I the lands outside the Shire boundaries, yet here we are, and there they are." The pipe stem was bitter in his mouth. Pippin suddenly wished his smoke-pouch wasn't empty. "Wonder how many miles we've traveled so far? Further than ol' Bilbo, at any rate."  
  
Frodo eased upward, standing with the care of the ancient. "Many miles, and then them double again going back."  
  
"But not yet. First we go back to the White City."  
  
Frodo sighed. "Not yet, not yet. I guess we'll have to wait a while longer for our back again, Pip."  
  
Peregrin said nothing, just closed his eyes to the growing burn of the sun's rays. The little dell swayed with the noise of crickets and distant horses, but it was the gentle splashing that Frodo made wading through the shallows that kept him from succumbing to the dark.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
The Fields of Cormallen were awash with the sounds of activity as the soldiers broke camp, saddling horses and packing the tents into roles. All had been made ready for the journey to Minas Tirith the day before, and now only the barest of necessities were still standing: the cook-tent, command quarters, and medical facilities. Most of the bed-ridden still too ill to ride had already been sent ahead to the city, but the few who weren't were being loaded, cot and all, onto specially designated carts under full guard.  
  
Naturally, Frodo refused to go in the cart, which explained the hubbub and fuss around one small, gentle pony.  
  
"You sure you want to ride, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam, fussing again over the reign and stirrup lengths. "This ain't no Shire pony. I know I'm right nervous about these men horses. Too much leg and stomping hoof, if you ask me."  
  
Frodo smiled, groping blindly to pet the smooth coat of his mount. "Yes, I'm sure I want to ride, Sam. After three months of walking, it will be good to sit on a horse for a while."  
  
"I hear that we won't be riding the whole way," piped Merry from where he was adding a few last provisions to the pony's saddle bag. "The king's men say that we'll sail once we get to the river."  
  
"Boats…" groaned Sam. "I'm right nervous about them, too."   
  
Frodo squeezed his hand. The pounding of hooves shook the ground and a high spirited horse snorted and shook its halter as it drew up next to them.  
  
"Greetings," hailed Legolas as he swung down lightly into the grass. A low stream of cursing and a heavy thud of chain mail told Frodo that Gimli was behind him.   
  
"Greetings," he called, tilting his face upward in the direction of the elf's voice. "Tell me friend elf, is the weather fair today?"  
  
"The weather is always fair, rain or shine, now that the Dark One has fallen," replied Legolas softly. "But if we do not leave before long I fear our rear guards will sustain a heavy sprinkle. There are a few gray puffs to the east."  
  
Frodo closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and breathed deeply. The air was sweet with the first hint of spring, and indeed a heaviness that spoke of rain rode the back of the light wind.   
  
"Yes. It smells of rain. Strange that it should."  
  
"Aye," grumbled the dwarf's low voice. "But then your senses should be getting sharper to compensate for what you have lost. No doubt our Baggins will be like a blood hound soon, sniffing for the rain or when young Pip gets into trouble."  
  
Frodo's smile was nowhere near what it had once been, the pulling of the corners more of a chore than a joy, pale gums and twinge of sadness turning any mirth there bitter, but every slow, creeping grin was a whisper of eventual healing, or so Sam prayed. He finished fiddling with the leather straps and gave a nod to Legolas, signaling that all was ready.  
  
"I fear that we shall have to leave soon, Frodo," said the elf. "If you are ready we shall settle you ere we leave and save a hurried rush later."  
  
Frodo nodded, and Legolas carefully picked him up and sat him atop the pony's wide back. A high backed saddle had been fashioned and the stirrups shortened to hobbit height. The members of their party would be taking turns leading the pony, so the horn where the reigns would normally be looped was being used as an anchor for a sort of a belt about the Ringbearer, further preventing him from tumbling off. Once mounted, Frodo was wrapped in warm, soft blankets and urged to keep still and quiet and perhaps doze a little, if he wished.   
  
But when it was suggested that he take some soothing draught to ease his slumber while they journeyed, he protested loudly. "I am sick of being drugged into a drooling stupor," he said. "I shall take the headache and the rough road if only for a chance to be doing something other than sleeping."  
  
Just as Sam had, out of nervousness, begun to check the leather fastenings of the saddle for the thousandth time (one can never be too careful with these sorts of things, especially on a Man horse and saddle), a great rush of noise clattered through the bit of meadow where they stood and a troop of horses cantered by, among them Aragorn and Gandalf, who pulled out of the formation and reigned their mounts to a gentle stop just out of the hobbits' earshot.  
  
"Hail, friends Aragorn and Gandalf, " greeted Legolas, leaving the pony's side to bow low.  
  
"Hail and good morning to you. How is Frodo?"  
  
Legolas wiped a stray strand of windblown hair from his eyes and turned to look at Frodo, huddled and wrapped like an old woman. "Not as well as he will lead you, but humor him while the road is yet easy."  
  
Aragorn's brow furrowed in thought while he stroked his horse's neck idly. "I thought as much. He insists on riding, then? Yes, of course he would, and though I do not think he will be able to manage the rougher roads I am gladdened to see some return of spirit."   
  
He flicked his eyes skyward, eyeing the storm clouds Legolas had spotted earlier, then towards the hobbits, nodding in approval of the saddle and riding arrangement . "Let him ride, then, for now, but not alone. Two at least should ride abreast with him, one to lead his horse and another to steady him lest he fall."  
  
Gandalf hummed his approval. "I shall take the honor this leg of our journey. Perhaps the presence of another old fool will soften the blow to his dignity." So taking his leave of the company he spurned Shadowfax towards the hobbits.  
  
"Greetings young Baggins. I think that my old bones shall ride with this part of the party today, where the pace is slower and the young soldiers not so wont to race each other and fling mud everywhere."  
  
"Hello, Gandalf. Are we actually going now?" His voice was soft, as if on the edge of sleep, but he scrabbled frantically for the horn when his horse kicked at a particularly insistent fly.   
  
The wizard peered into the distance, watching the front of the column begin to surge forward in a blaze of trumpets and whipping of banners. "It appears so. The company rides towards Minas Tirith. A pleasant journey, I should hope, with all worries gone. But come, Master Samwise. Mount your pony before the armies of Gondor depart without us."  
  
And so, around mid-morning, once Sam had settled into his saddle and taken up Frodo's reigns, they set forth, three cloaked figures on white horses, Ringbearers all.  
  
  
TBC…. 


	5. Part Five

Title: Alone in the Dark (5/?)  
Author: Slipstream  
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)  
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)  
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…  
Notes: Significant portions of this chapter use dialogue directly from Return of the King, specifically the crowning scene in 'The Steward and the King.' The idea of Gandalf carrying candied toffees (ginger, in this case) stems from the LOTR:FOTR extended edition movie commentary where it was revealed that Gandalf was originally going to be shown sucking on toffees rather than smoking to appease the anti-smoking lobbyists. Thanks Febobe for the herbal notes!   
Additional Notes Concerning Updates: I know that I am one of the world's slowest updaters, but fan fiction is just a hobby. There are no deadlines, no timelines, no grades. Regrettably, fan fiction does NOT (as much as I wish it would) come before school, homework, term papers, calculus homework, chemistry finals, group projects, and other things that scholarships are dependent upon. I wish that I could chuck real life to the wind and write to my little heart's content, this is not the case. I can only hope to appease you with the knowledge that this story-line is going to run until the end of ROTK and it already looks like it shall be 15-20 posts long. I'm trying to write with as high a quality as I can, and I assure you that as soon as I get *every* chapter finished, within hours it has been proofread and posted. I like updating as much as you like reading updates. I am not hiding several hidden chapters from you. Also, "Alone" is not exactly being written chronologically. Several snippets from later chapters get written as I go along (as I don't want to lose any ideas), and while this may slow down the current chapter's progression, it speeds up the process further down the line as I have more time to dwell on each plot point. Please bear with me in my slowness. I'm trying to do my best.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
The journey south did not agree with Frodo at all. By the end of the second day the constant rocking of the horse and lack of any visual orientation had turned his stomach in nervous flip flops. Twice he had been forced to beg for a pause in the journey, gripping vainly at the pony's mane in an attempt to stop the world from heaving. When the third instance had him bent over the side of the saddle vomiting what little he had managed to stomach Gandalf finally decided that, stubborn or no, enough was enough. During one of the pauses to allow the horses to rest, he secretly mixed the contents of his herbal pouch into the Ringbearer's water flask. By the time Frodo realized what devilry had been performed without his consent it had been far too late for him to do anything about it. He slept now in front of the Istari, his mare trailing faithfully behind and Samwise casting nervous glances his direction every five minutes.  
  
When they reached the River Anduin, a steady wind had begun to blow, snapping the sails of the waiting ships smartly. Here their party split; a group of scouts on horseback went to prepare the White City for the return of its king while the remainder of the army lingered along the shoreline, moving more slowly in order to eradicate any lingering dark troops within the lands. The king and his court would travel by boat.  
  
Frodo moaned and shifted as he was lifted down from Shadowfax, and swift hands wrapped him quickly in many warm layers. The shallow bottomed river boats were not deep enough to contain more than cargo holds, but a special place well padded with cushions and shielded from the elements by blankets had been prepared for him alongside Aragorn's seat.   
  
Sam cowered from the edge of the boat, bracing himself against its gentle rocking. "Don't like boats, I don't. Nothing good ever comes of 'em," he muttered, and grimaced as Merry and Pippin rushed forward to peer over the prow. Gandalf laughed softly and within his arms Frodo stirred, looking rather ruffled.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked in confusion, stifling a yawn.  
  
Gandalf hummed lowly within his chest, hitching the bundle of blankets a little higher on his hip. "We have reached the Anduin while you were sleeping, young Baggins, and have boarded the ships that will take us to the White City."  
  
"Boats? Sam won't be happy."  
  
Watching the young Gamgee turn slightly green, Gandalf replied, "No, I should say that he isn't."  
  
Frodo felt hot and restless, too tired even to squirm. He closed his eyes again behind the blindfold, shivering slightly.   
  
Gandalf set him down in a nest of cushions, noting the Ringbearer's distress with some concern. He crossed the deck to where Sam sat huddled in his misery. "Come, Sam," he urged. "You are not yet fully healed yourself and deserve your rest. Perhaps a nap will take your mind off of your dislike of sailing."  
  
Sam peered up, squinting against the bright sunlight. "How long will we be on these blasted things, Gandalf?"  
  
"A day or two, perhaps three if we are delayed along our journey."  
  
Sam groaned and dropped his head back onto his knees. "I think that I shall loose all that I've gained again, if you take my meaning, sir."  
  
Gandalf patted the small back in sympathy and fished through his herb pouch. "Here," he said, offering the hobbit a hunk of something amber-colored and the size of a small rock. "Chew this."   
  
Sam eyed it suspiciously. "It won't make me drop off, will it?"  
  
Gandalf shook his head in wonderment. "My, you certainly have developed your master's mistrust of medicines, haven't you?" Sam blushed. "No, it won't. It's only a bit of candied ginger and should help to curb your nausea. It is also a delightful substitute when one is out of pipe-weed, as I have discovered."   
  
Sam took the ginger and tentatively sucked on it. It was slightly tacky but did seem to help him feel better, so he tucked it into the side of his cheek. Thanking the wizard, he moved to the back of the boat (staying very far away from the rail, thank you very much) to where his master lay.  
  
Aragorn was discussing something with one of the helmsmen. Sam offered him a smile and the ranger smiled back, indicating that Frodo was drowsing amidst the small avalanche of blankets and cloaks. Sam settled slowly into the warm nest, relieved to have a chance to relieve his aching joints. All he could see of Frodo beneath his wrappings was a tuft of hair and a pale, bandaged hand. Glad to see his master resting, the gardener stroked the dark curls absently.   
  
Frodo stirred and whimpered softly, twisting against the tangled covers. Sam reached for Frodo's hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "Hush, don't fret now. It's just your Sam. You're safe."  
  
Frodo quieted. "Sam?" he mumbled in a small voice. "Did Gandalf drug you, too?"  
  
Sam smiled. "Nah, just a bit of candied ginger for my queasiness. I can get some for you if you'd like."  
  
"No thank you," Frodo grumbled, his grogginess popping like little bubbles in his voice. He yawned. "Tired. Must have been… some powerful stuff…"  
  
Sam reached over to straiten a few loose cushions, absently tucking him in tighter. "Go on back to sleep, then. We've a good ways more to travel, and then we'll see Mr. Strider crowned king. King! My, that'll be something to tell the gaffer about when we get home…"  
  
Frodo nodded absently, slipping again into dreams, thinking of how the slight rocking and surrounding warmth reminded him of a time long ago when he was wrapped in blankets and rocked by a softly singing female voice that had long been lost to the lapping waves.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
It was cold and a little windy for April, as if winter was trying to get one last say in before the coming of spring, but other than that it was a fine spring day, bright and sunny, with the crisp air carrying a few tarrying notes of birdsong. Even with the blindfold on bits of red light filtered into Frodo's vision, and he shielded his face further with his hands while his cousins supported him on either side. There had been a very slight discussion about whether or not he should be up at all, what with his illness appearing to resurge after their sail, but after all, it was not every day that a ranger was crowned king of Gondor, so he was allowed to attend.  
  
"What's happening?" he asked, shifting more of his weight to Merry's good arm. "Tell me everything."  
  
"Not much," Merry whispered back. "The soldiers are lining up in formation. There's no gate to the city, only a blockade, but people are all up on the wall lookin' down on us."  
  
He was interrupted by the clear ringing of a trumpet, and the gathered host at the gates of Minas Tirith fell silent.   
  
"Faramir is comin' forward now, and four fellows behind him are carrying a great black and silver casket," whispered Merry lowly, his breath making little puffs of air against Frodo's ear. Frodo would have asked more, but Faramir's voice broke through his thoughts.  
  
"The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office."  
  
Aragorn's voice was kingly and deep, far from the smokey rasp of Strider eons away in the Prancing Pony. "That office is not ended, and it shall be tine and they heirs' as long as my line shall last. Do now thy office!"   
  
There was a rustle of grass and then Faramir spoke in a clear voice, and from the slight muffle and echo Frodo guessed that he had turned to face the city walls. "Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! One has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftan of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?"  
  
And all the host and all the people cried "Yea!" with one great voice.  
  
"Men of Godnor," Faramir continued, "the loremasters tell that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since things must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old."  
  
Frodo squirmed in the silence that followed. "What's happening now?"  
  
"Well, Faramir's just opened that great casket, and he's got this magnificent crown in his hands. It's… oh… I'll have to tell you later, it's so grand. He's just given it to Strider, hush now…"  
  
And indeed, Aragorn was speaking again, but his words were not in the Common Tongue and they rolled and filled the field and Frodo's mind with their rich antiquity.  
  
"Et Eärello Endorenna utulien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!"  
  
Then he paused and his words were gentler if not less authoritative. "By the labor and valor of many I have come into my inheritance. In token of this I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me, and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory."  
  
Frodo balked, swaying slightly. "Gandalf!" he whispered. "What do I do?"  
  
"Do not worry, Frodo," the wizard reassured from his stance behind the hobbits, his voice full of warmth. "I will point you in the right direction. You need not fear if you stumble, for Faramir shall guide you."   
  
His strong hands replaced his cousins', and together they set forth toward Faramir and Aragorn. Before Gandalf broke off to stand beside Aragorn, he gave Frodo a gentle shove towards Faramir. Frodo's heart beat in a nervous flutterand he feared that his quivering legs would steer him wrong, but he soon felt Faramir's gentle touch upon his shoulder and relaxed. He took the crown, and in his hands the metal felt cool and heavy, good against his flushed skin.   
  
He turned in what he hoped was the direction he had come from, but in a blinding moment of panic he lost all sense of direction. "Faramir," he whispered. "Which way do I go?"  
  
The man's hands grasped him about the shoulder and turned him slightly to the left. "This way, Master Hobbit."  
  
"Ah, thank you."  
  
He could imagine the captain's gentle smile as he covered the short distance, then Gandalf's hands stayed him again and lifted the crown from his hands. Frodo fell in beside the wizard, clasping his hands behind his back for want of something to do with them, and suddenly Sam was there, supporting him as they observed the rest of the crowning.  
  
Aragorn knelt, and Gandalf the White set the crown up his head and said, "Now come the days of the King and may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!"  
  
In all his life Frodo had never felt such a rush of joyous emotion, and within his mind it was if he could see Strider standing tall and proud, the sun gleaming brightly off of the White Crown. Indeed, a flash of light broke through the cloth of his blindfold, and he was dazzled by the rush of red spots, feeling all of five feet tall.  
  
"Behold the King!" cried Faramir, and the ensemble burst into cheering and blowing of trumpets.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
It was not a large courtyard by any means, but to Frodo it was ideal, both in its proximity to the set of rooms Aragorn had given him as his own and its seclusion from the rest of the upper circle. It was small, no more than thirty paces long and twenty paces wide and bounded on all sides by the high stone walls of the surrounding houses, accessible only through a single narrow gateway. There was a small path and the remnants of an old fountain surrounded by benches, all handily low for a tired hobbit to scramble up upon, each seat carved with deep-set runes and designs that spoke of ancient dwarven handicraft to blind, exploring fingers. All of this he had learned by touch, groping around the perimeter an inch at a time and digging his toes into the newly unthawed earth beginning to spring forth tender shoots of life. (He had also learned, quite by accident, that some of the plants were actually poison oak, and Sam had been kind enough to tend to their removal while Legolas applied a poultice to the rash.)  
  
The sun was warm here in this section of Aragorn's court. The stone beneath him was almost hot from days of direct sunlight, and Frodo lounged on the heated bench, soaking up sun like a lizard. Yet despite the growing warmth of the summer breezes he was wrapped in layers of cloaks and warm winter clothing. Ever since his wounding at Weathertop he had felt the cold more deeply, and the destruction of the Ring seemed to have ripped the part of his core that retained heat from his very being.  
  
The weave of his outer cloak was thick beneath his fingers and from the stifled warmth it absorbed he guessed it was dyed a dark color, black, perhaps, if Boromir's clothing had been any indication of Gondorian style. He had pulled the hood tight around his face and tucked his feet beneath him, so with the blindfold on the only part of his body exposed to the open air was the tip of his nose and lower face.  
  
He sighed. His breath rattled against the dry skin of his lips and he licked them absently. Six weeks. Six weeks they had been in the White City and still it winded him to do more than walk from his bed-chambers to the main banquet hall. He had been ill again upon their first entering the city, spending another week in bed rest, and his body had yet to grow used to the chill the old stone settled in the air.   
  
Every muscle was sore and stiff. He had complained of it at first, but even the softest touch that attempted to massage the pain away only caused him to stiffen and muffle cries as every muscle screamed in protest. Whatever relief these sessions provided was temporary and not worth the pain and agony. He learned to bear it and never spoke of it again, pretending that every movement wasn't a torture in itself. Maybe, he told himself, if he ignored the stiffness, the pain, the icy feeling of his blood creeping sluggishly through his veins, then it would go away, either that or become so common that he could pretend that nothing was wrong. Like his eyes.  
  
He flinched at the thought, wrinkling his nose instinctively behind the rough blindfold. Since Cormallen he had been toying with his vision, tempting it to get it to return to some use while similarly learning to get along without it. He had learned that all was not completely lost, some tiny sliver of sight remained. In very dim candlelight he could see vague forms and colors along with some movement, and in that gray almost-light between moon-set and sun-rise there were silhouettes, moving dark and wraith-like amongst a silver mist. But in all practicality his eyes were useless; the bright daylight rendered him utterly blind and gave him a pounding headache and vertigo. He wore the blindfold to block as much of the disorienting flashes as possible and because he sensed that it made those around him less uneasy by hiding the horrors he imagined his eyes had become. Nobody said anything, but Frodo noticed that when he was up close and touching the faces of his cousins, his friends, they were never turned to face him head-on, always they turned away slightly to look at some distant corner or the edge of his clothes or else bit their lips nervously as they trembled to hold still.  
  
Frodo shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable, his bones jutting out of his too-thin skin and baggy clothing uncomfortably. Thankfully his seat was made for such reclining, and he lounged back against the warm stone. The breeze echoed in the little garden, bounced off the high walls of the courtyard in a gentle whisper of air. He thought he could doze if his pains would let him, and as he relaxed he wormed his maimed hand free of the confines of his clothing to stretch and ease some of the ache out of it.  
  
The footsteps were sharp and loud, breaking through Frodo's haze of almost-sleep. He turned as the clang and heavy jingle of chain mail and iron-shod boots clattered onto the stone path of the courtyard. Clank clank clank. They were business-like, decisive, and as they came to attention before his seat he could imagine the stoic face of the soldier as it peered down at him.  
  
"May I help you?"  
  
The soldier's chain mail jangled agitatedly. "By order of the Gondorian Guard, I must remove you from the king's court."  
  
Frodo was stunned. "What?!"  
  
The soldier tapped the butt of his spear decisively against the cobblestone. "You heard me. I don't know how you even got into this circle, but beggars aren't allowed in the inner court, child or no."  
  
His chest shook with sudden indignance and Frodo struggled to sit up despite his tangled cloak. "I assure you, sir, that I am no child, and certainly no beggar, and I beg you to reconsider your haughtiness before I take word with the king."  
  
He gasped as a rough hand seized him by the shoulder. "There now, I hate to be harsh to one so young but I'll have none of your cheek. I can take you down to a lower level and direct you to somewhere where you can get something to eat but you *must* leave…"  
  
The slap of bare feet against stone was so different than the soldier's own footsteps that Frodo turned towards them, shrugging the soldier's heavy hand off angrily. The feet ran along at a quick pace, rounding the corner into the garden at high speeds, and it was only when a high, animated voice called out "There you are, Frodo!" that he identified them as belonging to one Peregrin Took.  
  
Pippin was short of breath and audibly jumping with excitement, but Frodo could still hear the soldier's sharp intake of air as he realized his fatal mistake.   
  
"I-I… Master Ringbearer, I apologize… I did not realize… oh I have been a fool! Forgive me, please…!"  
  
Pippin glanced between the furiously apologizing guard and the huddled form of his cousin. "Hey you, what's going on?"  
  
"Nothing," Frodo interrupted before the guard could embarrass them further. The soldier took advantage of Frodo's current occupation with his cousin and made a hasty retreat, footsteps receding quickly on the old stone. Frodo sighed. He would have to ask Aragorn to have the guard dropped from this portion of the citadel, or at least informed, to avoid future incidents. Pippin's hand slipped into his own, and Frodo looked upwards to what was, hopefully, his cousin's face. "Now, tell me what it is that has you in such a state."  
  
Pip's grin could be felt through his whole body even if Frodo could not see it. "Oh Frodo, it's so exciting! I came as fast as I could to tell you!" He was already tugging Frodo to his feet and pulled him into a quick embrace in his happiness. "The wedding party has arrived! Lord Elrond and the Lady Arwen are here!"  
TBC….  
  
*- "Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world." –Elendil originally 


End file.
